


Threading Hope Like Fire

by summerstorm



Category: Glee
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Denial, F/F, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-05 00:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Rachel who starts it. Obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threading Hope Like Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a glee_kink_meme prompt. Title from David Gray's Disappearing World.

It's Rachel who starts it. Obviously.

Quinn's not sure how she got roped into taking Rachel shopping after a bunch of girls from an unidentified competitor at Regionals threw Rachel in a dumpster. One minute she was complaining about how much her ankles hurt in the shoes she was supposed to wear for their new arrangement of Somebody to Love, and the next Mr. Schuester was all, "Why don't you girls take care of your wardrobe issues together?" and "You're both already great, we can wrap up dress rehearsal without you," and now Quinn is trying on Uggs and Crocs because, according to Rachel, "Anyone worth their salt will easily forgive a fashion faux pas from a pregnant woman, and you'll probably look pretty in them anyway." She thinks she hears Rachel mutter something like, "it's infuriating," after that, but if Rachel doesn't want her insulting words heard, Quinn's not going to make an effort to hear them.

It helps, sort of, even though it's coming from someone who dresses like Benjamin Button's condition threw up all over her clothes. She doesn't buy any Crocs or even plain old clogs, God forbid, but she does get a pair of Uggs and changes into them on the cab back to the hotel. Going from her not at all warm ballerina shoes to this feels like a foot massage, though her legs look like they just took a metaphorical beating.

There's a pair of jeans in her bag, which she thinks might look a lot less offensive to the eye with the stupid boots than her dress, and the fact that her bag ended up at the other side of the backseat—at the other side of Rachel—isn't going to stop her.

"I need to grab my jeans," she snarls after folding her legs over the seat, and kneels up, careful not to brush Rachel's skirt, because she may have gone shopping with her, but physical contact is out of the question. She could ask Rachel to get her jeans for her—it's not like there's more than one pair in her bag, even someone like Rachel can't miss it—but that would involve asking Rachel Berry for help, and that's more than her self-esteem can take in one day.

She arches over Rachel's lap, which is more than a little embarrassing, to fumble with the zipper and start rummaging in her bag. A strand of hair catches in her teeth, and she raises a hand to extract it as gracefully as possible.

It doesn't seem like a bad idea—in Quinn's opinion, it beats leaving things in your mouth you don't want there by a landslide—until the cab turns into a corner and she stumbles forward again and has a brief moment of panic—she gasps, she thinks, and battles back a wave of mild nausea—and she feels denim under her fingertips, so at least she just has to clutch and pull and go back to her side of the car.

Before she has a chance to regain her composure, though, the car reaches a red light and stops suddenly, causing Quinn's whole body to jerk forward. In what she assumes is an instinctive move to save Quinn from falling, Rachel's hands make contact with her hips, and Quinn curses at herself for not remembering this as she feels her lids drop and her legs completely lose balance for a second—long enough to stumble into Rachel's lap, flinging a knee over her thigh to keep from hitting her head on the window.

So, okay, Quinn gets turned on when someone holds her hips; it's part of the reason she didn't say no to Puck, and Rachel's hands are very, very far from small—they feel heavy on her, fingers digging in as Rachel props herself on her elbows to sway back out of the way, avoid getting hit by Quinn's seemingly psychotic limbs, which is more as far as reflexes go than Quinn would normally expect from a show choir geek. It's not a big deal—she can calm down and retrieve her jeans and forget about—

"Oh god," she chokes. Rachel has shifted, _is_ shifting and her knee—her knee's rubbing up between Quinn's legs in a way that's only painful because it's just _right_. Which means it's horribly wrong and making her gasp and oh God, this is so not the time for her sleep deprivation to catch up with her hormones.

"What?" Rachel asks. She sounds distracted, like she doesn't really expect an answer, which—is probably a good thing, because Quinn's breath seems to have caught in her throat forever and she can feel herself getting wet and oh, this is not good. She's on a cab, and she's sitting on Rachel's lap and this is not good, it's not good that she's following Rachel's movement and Rachel's saying, "Oh," like she's realized what's going on, like—God, like the underside of her panties is already damp enough for Rachel to feel.

She closes her eyes. It's that or blushing, and she's already flushed enough every time she sways down and feels the friction from Rachel's bare thigh.

She blames the pregnancy hormones. It's like her brain has forgotten there is such a thing as shame and Quinn is going to be feeling it in spades when this is over. Also, if Rachel didn't insist on wearing such short skirts, they wouldn't be in this position, so it's really Rachel's fault. Deep down. And on the surface as well.

Rachel's hands wrap lightly around her waist and settle down over the small of her back. Quinn's hips jerk without consulting her when Rachel thumbs her hipbones, and Quinn hopes the driver's keeping her eyes on the road. She even finds relief in the fact that they'll likely never see her again, which is just messed up.

She's not sure if the grunt she hears next comes from herself or from Rachel—Rachel's looking down between them, eyes wide at the soft, barely noticeable swell of Quinn's dress every time she moves, and something like curiosity washes over her face before Quinn feels the pressure get stronger and out of her grip, the sound of Rachel's heel grating against the base of the seat.

It hits Quinn then, when she sees her hair fall forward and brush Rachel's cheek, that she's not just grinding down, she's out and out _riding_ Rachel's thigh, and her breath catches as she comes, closing her lips over the exposed expanse of Rachel's shoulder near her neck, grazing warm skin with her teeth at each wave of pleasure, each toe-curling instant.

Her body stills. She doesn't fight it.

When she gathers enough courage to pull her head out of the warm, comforting, if-I-fall-asleep-now-I-can-pretend-this-was-just-a-disturbing-dream incline of Rachel's collarbone, Rachel's blushing to her ears and surprisingly not saying a word. It—seems kind of cute to Quinn's befuddled mind, actually, and possibly means Quinn might not have to rely on blackmail to make Rachel forget what just happened ever happened, which is a huge relief.

She keeps her baby doll dress on, and she doesn't face Rachel the rest of the way to the hotel.


End file.
